Vise and Valise
by Plot-twister
Summary: The PKwar has been over for three monems, but a vengeful force from an altered past threatens Crichton's family and friends.
1. Chapter 1

**_The events in this story take place three monems after the Peacekeeper Wars_**

**Vise and Valise**

**Chapter 1: Awakenings**

The light burned red through his eyelids. Almost instantaneously he noticed the floor beginning to heat under his palms and stood up, burying his head in the crook of an arm. He looked down for a moment and saw that he was naked, and that even looking at the reflection of the lights in the metalloid floor made dark splotches in his vision. A guttural roar shook his body as he realized that no matter where he went in the room the light was inescapable, and the soles of his feet were beginning to itch and tingle. "Reduce to minimal levels," someone commanded; they sounded like a patchwork of computerized output and the calming voice of a mother. The light ebbed away, and the floor immediately became cool to the touch. Jothee lowered his arms to his sides and spat through his nose. He was staring directly into a glossy black circle on the shimmering wall in front of him, about his height, a henta in diameter.

"Hello Jothee," the crooning voice was coming from the black viewport. "Sorry I woke you, but you seemed almost too peaceful, and a body at peace must know disruption from time to time in order to remain…kinetic. As a Luxan Cleava, I'm sure you understand?" Jothee's cold blue eyes narrowed at the obsidian window, and he cupped his hands together like a crude battering ram. As the flesh of his fist malleted into the center of the viewport, a sharp electric jolt went through his bones that had contacted the surface, and they immediately dissipated into food-cube mush in his hand. His screams echoed metallically off the walls.

"What did we learn?" Through the immense pain of his now liquefied hand, Jothee could hear an audible smile in the speaker's voice. "Who…the hezmana…are you?" His voice was low and vicious as he pushed back into a corner, cradling his hand.

"A friend of a friend."

"What do you want with me?"

"You…" She heaved an exasperated sigh that sounded like something being dragged over a metal grate; it pained her to speak.

"…nothing. But I've been tracking your vessel for a while now and according to DNA tests, my inclinations have proven correct. Tell me, where is your father; where is D'argo?"

Jothee, usually stern and straight-faced, chuckled dryly as his father did at times like these. "Go frell the nearest power source, tralk."

"Please," said the voice, becoming considerably more life-like for a moment, "he was a friend of mine…"

"He's dead!" Jothee stood up now, forcing his usable hand into a fist at his side. "Is this how you honor a friends memory? By killing his offspring from a distance?" The seething insanity in Jothee's voice rose; each word was delivered like a single, pulse blast.

"WHERE-IS-MY-SHIP? WHERE-IS-MY-CREW?"

"Jothee, we are not going to kill you," the voice was monotone and mechanized again, and it betrayed deep intentions.

The lights in the room leapt up around him like a Luxan Smith's kiln. As heat upon heat racked his body, Jothee realized this metaphor fit all too well: whoever they were, they were honing him, pounding him into a shapely weapon that they could wield against someone.

Behind the black glass a humanoid hand, seeming to shift in and out of existence like an image on a vid-screen, switched the comms system off, abruptly cutting the burning screams with silence. The hulking figure turned to one of the mercenaries in the small viewing room, a sweaty pudge of a Nebari named Frindle.

"Is the Qualta blade's distress beacon transmitting?" The figure's breath was a death rattle. Frindle nodded solemly.

A tear, red with iron sulfate, trickled down the metal face plate. "Leave me," she choked out. Frindle paused for only a moment at the door, before scuttling away like an Altarian crab down the dingy track-lit corridor. She turned back to the window, opening the comms again, lowering the radiance level with the mishmash of controls they'd commandeered over the years from salvage operations. The screaming subsided, and what was left of her humanoid mind cleared.

"No Jothee," she said stoically, looking through red slits of eyes, "your father is not the one who betrayed me and my people…not the one whose offspring I wish to destroy."


	2. Baby Trouble

"John, you know I love this child, but there is absolutely no way I'm doing…THAT!" For John Crichton, everyday after the PK wars had ended was like waging a new battle on a different front. What's more, he was actually enjoying fighting these skirmishes: Aeryn telling him she was physically ill-equipped to nurse their son D'argo Sunn, but then finding begrudgingly that the human pregnancy had awakened dormant mammary glands; the first time they'd left the baby with Noranti so Aeryn and he could go planet-side for some shore leave; and now this, the mother of all fights.

"Look: I've had to change Mr. 'I love Delvian rice pudding' over there every time, it's your turn!" John went to grab Aeryn's upraised arms, but she quickly unholstered her pulse pistol, pointing it squarely in the middle of his forehead. "I will kill you…" she smiled mischievously, backing away from John and the squirming, mewing child on the bed. Noranti quickly trotted into the room and tapped at the door controls, just fast enough for Aeryn to turn and run right into the bug-wing metal lattice whirring closed.

"We've got her Crichton!" the old woman whooped and crooned, bending low as if ready to pounce at any moment. The look on Aeryn's face was somewhere between disbelief and abject fear. John fell back on the bed next to D'argo, stomping on the floor with his bare feet and laughing his ass off. He turned to DS, who seemed to cheer up a little and put his tiny hand around John's pointer finger. Aeryn let out a single guffaw, and guided the pistol towards Noranti who immediately swatted at it with her bony olive hands. "You know," she said, sounding as usual like she'd just had one coffee too many, "I actually find the smell very pleasant!"

The skin bunched up between Aeryn's eyebrows. "Well then you can wear it, you wrinkled old…"

The comms system suddenly crackled to life above the tumult. "I hate to break the…uh…festivities, Commander; but Moya's sensors are picking up a distress beacon from what looks like…a Qualta blade!" As if it were an automated response, everyone snapped back to readiness immediately. Aeryn let the pistol fall to her side, craning her neck to the left quizzically. "Pilot is there any way of knowing…" Pilot finished her thought, "IT IS! It is Ka D'argo's blade!" John and Aeryn shared a knowing look; it was a look that they'd shared frequently in more turbulent times: the 'oh no, not again' look.

"I'm on my way Pilot," John sneered out, grabbing the nearest shirt and stumbling around the room as he pulled his shoes on. Aeryn started to follow him out. "Hu-uh!" John pressed one hand to her shoulder and stared down at her over his nose. "You ain't gettin' outta this one that easy. N, make sure she doesn't leave until it's done…" Aeryn sighed resignedly, as Noranti barred her teeth and growled, shaking her staff at the ex Peace Keeper. The last thing John heard as he padded down the corridor was Aeryn saying "Aw, frell; Pilot, get the incinerators on tier seven ready for 'diaper disposal'."

"Pilot," said John, sliding onto Moya's main tier in a light jog, "Is there any way of knowing whether or not Jothee is in the vicinity of the beacon?" When John didn't get an answer, the pit of his stomach fell out. "Pilot?" John could definitely feel the ship picking up speed. "PILOT!" "One way to find out Commander," Pilot brayed over his quick moving pincers. The door to the bridge was closed tightly. "C'mon man, let me in!" John, began to panic; he knew Pilot still felt the rawness of Ka D'argo's death, because he felt it to. He waited a few more tense seconds. "Pilot, I know you just wanna help, but so do I, so for the love a Christ, lemme in!" The comms were silent as the door whirred open. For the first time since he came up, John looked out of the frontal viewport to see a giant grey ship, twice Moya's size, shaped like a parallelogram. The clam-shell swished to life above his head and Pilot seemed even more vehement and animated than usual. John reeled. "WHOA! Pilot, wait, wait, wait! We don't even know what the heck this thing is, don't get too hast-"

"Moya and I are in agreement that we must aid Jothee at all costs," Pilot was curt and cold as he stared down at John, making it clear that to some extent, he blamed him for the death of Moya's previous captain. "Pilot," Aeryn had come onto the bridge silently, staring at the alien ship with a hardened expression, "we all want to help Jothee if he is in danger. But think clearly," she advanced on the navigations console. "Don't you find it convenient that we are the only ship within…five-thousand metras distance of the beacon? This is more than mere coincidence, don't you think?" Aeryn had a calming way of talking to Pilot that always seemed to take the winds from his sails. "I…I'm sorry, Officer Sunn; I…only wished to help…"

John sidled up beside Aeryn under the clam-shell. "But Pilot, it's not gonna do us any good if we go shooting our guns off before lookin' at are targets."

Pilot looked sheepish. "Standing down, Commander…" Noranti had wandered onto the bridge with D'argo in a sling, and was now staring bug-eyed and pointing wildly at the viewport. John and Aeryn glanced around to see an electric blue pulse galloping through space right at them. "Aw frell!" John grabbed a hold of a bulkhead above him, pulling Aeryn into him with his free arm just as Noranti wedged herself and DS in the niche behind one of the consoles. "Hang on people!" Pilot screamed as the ship dived downward.


End file.
